


Copper Kisses

by FunkyinFishnet



Series: To Live Is To Drown [4]
Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Alternate Canon, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Male-Female Friendship, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:23:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hobbs is a gentleman, a dreamer, and a realist, all under a constable's hat. Jackson is definitely not a gentleman. They both have copper in their hearts and in their hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Copper Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> The last one for now, maybe I'll get inspired again once series two starts airing in the new year. I hope so, I've really enjoyed writing this relationship :)

 

 

Hobbs often woke with a gasp. He had to get his breath back, he had to; the water was high and his limbs weren't working and...

 

 

“Hobbs!”

 

 

The voice didn't belong in the water and grasped his attention instantly. Hobbs jerked his gaze sideways and spied Jackson lying beside him, squinting in the dim light. Jackson. They were in bed, side by side, there was no water. Hobbs' breathing began to steady, his body collapsing with relief.

 

 

“I'm sorry, sir. It's just the water and...”

 

 

Jackson didn't let him apologise for long. Instead he kept a hand to Hobbs, to his back, his chest, his hip, his thigh, a warm grounding contact that caused much tension to drop from Hobbs. Then Jackson spoke sleep-slurred words. “Relax, Hobbs, the water's away for now.”

 

 

And Hobbs took a deep breath and nodded, and still half caught in dreams, he leant towards the one thing that felt real in the watery night; Jackson and his warm strong breath and equally strong touch. Jackson who was already drifting back into sleep but who didn't let go.

 

 

Because some nights, it was Jackson who awoke captured by a terrible past, his mouth swearing and his eyes flint-hard, his hands reaching for a gun. He rarely pointed it at Hobbs, but when he did, with a slight tremor to his hands that Hobbs never made comment on, Hobbs' voice was what drew him back again.

 

 

*

 

 

Miss Hart was looking at him again. Hobbs cleared his throat and glanced at her in return. It was only polite; she was looking particularly fine, in a fitted dress of pink silk that had gained her many admiring glances. Hobbs tugged at his collar and then quickly dropped his hands; he'd been told that gentlemen did not behave so uncomfortably and a gentleman was what he was supposed to be; a gentleman accompanying Miss Susan Hart to one of the most high-class gatherings he'd ever laid eyes on.

 

 

Hobbs tried for a small smile toward Miss Hart, who was stood close to him, sipping occasionally from a glass. She could have been mistaken for the wife of a rich businessman or the lady of a lord. She fitted in perfectly. Hobbs wished he had that skill, he felt so out of place.

 

 

But Jackson could not accompany her due to his relentlessly unkempt state, nor Drake who Miss Hart had dismissed as the epitome of a gentleman's driver, not the gentleman himself, and she'd claimed there was no cause in the world that would induce her to enter a room on the arm of Inspector Reid. Hobbs, she'd declared, would do. He was no threat to any man wishing to arrange business with her. It had sounded like an insult but Hobbs had caught the ironic lift of her mouth as she'd spoken and had smiled a little himself in response. Miss Hart thought he could take care of himself and her, if the need arose. Inspector Reid's expression had tightened at their silent exchange.

 

 

So here Hobbs was, all dressed up as Miss Hart had instructed with her on his arm and his eyes on the honourable railroad magnet Mr Lloyd Martin who was reputed to have an unquenchable interest in young ladies and business practices that were not above board. Together, Miss Hart and Hobbs were to gain what information they could and hopefully, Mr Martin's trust also.

 

 

“You never ask questions,” Miss Hart said, sudden and quiet so that only he could hear her.

 

 

Hobbs hoped he didn't jump too much and lifted an enquiring eyebrow in the manner he'd seen her do on a number of occasions. “Questions, miss?”

 

 

“Questions that any man living under my roof and in Homer Jackson's bed would rationally ask, a-fever with jealousy and curiosity.”

 

 

Hobbs flushed but shook his head, amusement bubbling at the edges of his expression, coupled with a sort of glassy courage that he’d felt seeping in for some weeks now, weeks that he had spent in the company of those that called Miss Hart’s residence home. “I fear I'm not too rational, miss, especially when under your roof.”

 

 

A corner of Miss Hart’s mouth curled upwards before the expression was buried in her glass. Hobbs glowed a little at causing such a thing before continuing.

 

 

“Besides, there’s lots of questions put to you already, miss. I’m getting better.” Miss Hart raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to explain further. “Better at not needing to ask, miss.”

 

 

Miss Hart’s lips curled again, it was more pronounced this time, then her hand suddenly applied pressure at his elbow; someone was approaching. Hobbs straightened his posture.

 

 

“Miss Hart, I believe?”

 

 

Mr Lloyd Martin, with a fine moustache and a braided waistcoat, stood before them, his eyes gleaming with interest. Hobbs lifted his chin and set about observing as Miss Hart inclined her head and uttered a perfectly intriguing reply.

 

 

*

 

 

Hobbs shaved carefully most days with a straight razor. He remembered watching his father do the same on many a morning. Jackson watched him whenever he did so at Miss Hart’s. It made heat crawl up Hobbs’ back, feeling those eyes on him as he ran the sharp blade up his throat. But he never nicked himself.

 

 

Jackson rarely attended to his own grooming – a lack of vanity, Hobbs silently wondered, or another way of hiding himself? Perhaps Matthew Judge had cared more for his appearance. Instead Jackson ran hands slick with oil through Hobbs’ hair, smoothing it back to acceptable and smart, the very picture of what made his mother proud. It became another regularity. The gesture was lingering and thorough, Jackson’s fingers kneading Hobbs’ scalp and his breath ghosting Hobbs’ skin, causing Hobbs’ own breath to catch.

 

 

Jackson had once said that since he so often wrecked Hobbs, it was only right that he was afforded opportunities to neaten him too.

 

 

*

 

 

“Sir?”

 

 

Inspector Reid looked at Hobbs solemnly from across his desk, his gaze intent. “Your place of residence, Hobbs.”

 

 

“It’s still with my mother, sir. And I pay rent to Miss Hart also for use of a room.”

 

 

“A shared room.”

 

 

Hobbs flushed scarlet at the neck but nodded. “Yes, sir.”

 

 

The Inspector nodded and laced his hands together. Surely he wasn’t going to order Hobbs to sleep elsewhere? Would he then do the same to Captain Jackson? Hobbs wasn’t late when sleeping next to the Captain; his work didn’t suffer at all. If anything, it had gotten sharper. He’d been learning a new way of looking at the world, that had to be a boon, didn’t it?

 

 

Maybe Inspector Reid expected him to say something because the silence dragged on and Hobbs shifted awkwardly. But eventually the Inspector let out a breath and sat back.

 

 

“Well, as long as you’re sure there’s no trouble…”

 

 

Hobbs frowned, why would there be any trouble? Mrs Reid had no trouble at her shelter, did she? And Miss Hart ran a very careful business; she and Captain Jackson had more reason than most to keep unwanted attention from themselves. Hobbs always made an effort to keep himself unseen there, just in case.

 

 

“No trouble, sir.”

 

 

His voice was steady and almost firm and the Inspector’s expression rippled briefly in response. When Hobbs was dismissed, he stayed steady as he walked away.

 

 

*

 

 

Sometimes when Hobbs woke, there were copper coins in his hands and no memory of how they’d gotten there.

 

 

Then he’d become aware of Jackson’s arm sloppy at his waist, the tickle of familiar hair, and he’d _know_.

 

 

Some of the coins he slipped back to the Captain – on a plate that held bread and bacon, or scattered amongst the bloodied surgeon’s instruments under the faucets, or in the tobacco tin that was always present on Jackson’s person. Jackson never reacted greatly when he found them; he merely slid them away to privacy and shot Hobbs a look that sent a pleasant shiver through him.

 

 

Jackson used the coins to make Hobbs shiver in other ways too, sliding the cool cooper across Hobbs’ skin, touching him in places and ways that made him exclaim and fluster and groan. Jackson always took great pleasure in that.

 

 

A couple of coins Hobbs presented to Miss Hart when he passed on his latest rent. She raised an expression that spoke of an explanation required.

 

 

“A thank you, miss.”

 

 

He couldn’t articulate more – how could you explain water over your head, the sweet stench of forever sleep still in your throat, and that sure feeling that this was your end, only to find that it impossibly wasn’t, and that somehow the water was still present forever after anyway? Likely he didn’t need to explain, if any were to understand, other than Captain Jackson, it would be Miss Hart.

 

 

She nodded at him, her expression shifting once more.

 

 

A couple of coins Hobbs kept for himself, in the lining of his uniform. Just in case.

 

 

_-the end_


End file.
